The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(27)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“You admit you know these murderers?”

Simon nodded, eyes closed.

“Same ones as left you for dead?”

“Or their hired thugs.”

“What’s all this about, eh?” the captain growled. “Tell me.”

“Revenge.” Simon opened his eyes.

The old man didn’t blink. “Yours or theirs?”

“Mine.”

“Why?”

Simon looked into his glass, swirling the liquid, watching it paint the interior. “They killed my brother.”

“Ha.” The older man drank to that. “Then I wish you luck. Elsewhere.”

“I thank you.” Simon drained his glass and stood.

“’Course, you know what they say about revenge.”

Simon turned and asked the question, because it was expected and because the old man had been more lenient than he had any right to hope for. “What?”

“Be careful with revenge.” The captain grinned like an evil old troll. “Sometimes it twists around and bites you on the arse.”

LUCY STOOD AT HER NARROW BEDROOM window overlooking the drive and watched Mr. Hedge and Simon’s valet load the imposing black carriage. They appeared to be arguing over how to stack the luggage. Mr. Hedge was gesticulating wildly, the valet had a sneer on his uncommonly handsome lips, and the footman actually holding the box in question was staggering. They didn’t look like they would have the project done anytime soon, but the fact remained—Simon was leaving. Although she’d known this day would come, she somehow still hadn’t been expecting it, and now that it was here, she felt . . . what?

Someone knocked at her door, interrupting her confused thoughts.

“Come.” She let the gauzy curtain drop and turned.

Simon opened the door but remained in the hall. “May I have a word with you? Please.”

She nodded mutely.

He hesitated. “I thought we could take a turn around your garden?”

“Of course.” It wouldn’t be proper for her to talk to him alone here. She caught up a woolen shawl and preceded him down the stairs.

He held the kitchen door for her, and Lucy stepped into the cold sunshine. Mrs. Brodie’s vegetable garden was in a sad state this time of year. The hard earth was crusted with a thin layer of killing frost. Skeleton stalks of kale leaned in a drunken row. Beside them, some thin onion leaves were frozen to the ground, black and brittle. A few shrunken apples, missed at picking time, clung to the bare branches of the pruned trees. Winter overlaid the garden in a sleep that mimicked death.

Lucy folded her arms about herself and took a steadying breath. “You’re leaving.”

He nodded. “I can’t remain and put you and your family at further risk. This morning was too close, too deadly. If the assassin hadn’t missed his first shot . . .” He grimaced. “It was my own selfish vanity that let me stay so long as it is. I never should have lingered this past week, knowing what lengths they would go to.”

“So you will return to London.” She couldn’t look at him and remain impassive, so she kept her gaze on the rattling tree branches. “Won’t they find you there?”

He laughed, a harsh sound. “My angel, it is more a matter of me finding them, I fear.”

She did glance at him then. His face was bitter. And lonely.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

He hesitated, appeared to debate, then finally shook his head. “There is so much you do not know about me, will never know about me. Very few do, and in your case, I prefer it that way.”

He wasn’t going to tell her, and she felt an unreasoning spurt of rage. Did he still think she was a glass figurine to wrap in gauze? Or did he simply not respect her enough to confide in her?

“Do you really prefer I don’t know you?” She turned to face him. “Or do you say that to every naive woman you meet so they’ll think you sophisticated?”

“Think?” His lips quirked. “You cut me to the bone.”

“You’re fobbing me off with blather.”

He blinked, his head rearing back as if she’d slapped him. “Blather—”

“Yes, blather.” Her voice trembled with anger, but she couldn’t seem to steady it. “You play the fool so you won’t have to tell the truth.”

“I’ve only said it to you.” Now he sounded irritated.

Well, good. So was she. “Is that how you want to live? All alone? Never letting anyone in?” She shouldn’t push, she knew, as this was the last time they would see each other.

“It’s less a matter of wanting as it is . . .” He shrugged. “Some things can’t be changed. And it suits me.”

“It sounds a very solitary existence, and a not entirely satisfactory one,” Lucy said slowly, choosing her words carefully, lining them up like soldiers to do battle. “To go through life without a true confidant. Someone to whom you can reveal yourself without fear. Someone who knows your faults and weaknesses and who cares for you nonetheless. Someone for whom you don’t have to play a role.”

“You frighten me more than I can say at times.” His silver eyes gleamed as he whispered the words, and she wished she could read them. “Do not tempt a man so long without the bread of companionship.”

“If you stayed . . .” She had to stop and catch her breath; her chest felt tight. She gambled so much on these few seconds, and she needed to speak eloquently. “If you stayed, perhaps we could learn more about each other. Perhaps I could become that confidant for you. That companion.”

“I will not put you at further risk.” But she thought she saw hesitation in his eyes.

“I—”

“And that which you ask for”—he looked away—“I do not think I have it in me to give.”

“I see.” Lucy stared down at her hands. So this was defeat.

“If anyone—”

But she interrupted, talking quickly and loudly, not wanting to hear his pity. “You are from the fast city, and I am only a simple gentlewoman living in the country. I understand that—”

“No.” He turned back and took a step toward her so they stood only a hand’s width apart. “Don’t reduce what is between us to a conflict of rural and urban mores and ways.”

The wind blew against her and Lucy shivered.

He shifted so his body shielded hers from the breeze. “In the past week and a half, I have felt more than I ever have before in my life. You stir something in me. I . . .” He gazed over her head at the cloudy sky.